have in some measure made me well
by Eavis
Summary: Tim isn't feeling so well (he's sick), and decides that some coffee might made him feel better (it doesn't), and tries to take care of himself (Jason thinks this is a completely moronic idea and tells him so).


_For this I shall have time enough to mourn._

_In poison there is physic, and these news,_

_Having been well, that would have made me sick,_

_Being sick, have in some measure made me well. _

___Henry IV_

* * *

Tim stumbled blearily out to the car, scrubbing a hand roughly over his face. He'd spent six hours out in the rain last night on patrol, waiting for Black Mask's men to get in with their latest shipment, but they'd never showed, and by the time he'd dragged himself home and peeled himself out of his sodden suit, he had just enough time to fall into bed for an hour's fitful sleep before it was time to haul himself out of bed and off to Wayne Enterprises.

Coffee, he thought groggily, something hot, and pulled into the parking lot of Coffee, Inc.

Jason looked up as he stumbled in, and a teasing grin lit his eyes. "Well, look what the cat dragged in. A baby bird, all wet and –" the grin changed to a look of concern. "You okay there, Tim? You look a little –"

"Don' feel so good," Tim said muzzily, and promptly threw up all over the counter.

He probably would have been embarrassed about that if he hadn't blacked out a second later. The last thing he remembered was a pair of strong hands catching him just before he face-planted into his own mess, and worried eyes looking into his own.

Tim woke to the too-familiar sensation of disorientation and nausea and the horrible taste left by something crawling into your mouth and dying. Or maybe just vomiting. He sighed heavily, then bolted upright, one hand pressed tight over his mouth. A hand thrust a trash can underneath him just in time, and he heaved helplessly. After he was finished and was sagging wearily over the can, the same hand pressed a damp cloth into his as a half-amused, half-disgusted voice said in his ear, "This definitely makes up for that time I tried to kill you."

"Mmm," Tim agreed dreamily, then shook himself. "Jason! I- I'm sorry, I don't - I guess I have a – here let me get that –" he pushed the covers off, reaching for the messy trash can Jason had taken out of hands, but the other boy just shook hi head, shoving him back down, none-too-gently, to lie on the pillows. "Not a chance, Princess. Alfred's on his way and he'll withdraw my cookie privileges if I let you get worse before he gets here."

Tim looked blank. "You have cookie privileges? Why don't _I_ have cookie privileges! I don't live at the Manor anymore either!"

Jason looked smug. "I'm just awesome like that. Not even Alfred is immune to my charm. Also, I died."

"Right," Tim said, and then sat up quickly, waving frantically for the trash can.

With a sigh, Jason shoved it back to him.

Tim had precious little in his stomach to begin with, and anything he'd had left came up the first time, so he was mostly dry heaving wretchedly for five minutes while Jason hovered in the background. "Jay-" he panted miserably, "- you really don't have to stay. I'll be –_bleargh_- fine. Don't you have a shift to work or – _urgh_- something?"

"Nope," Jason said easily, hands in his pockets, "Tina picked it up for me. She says 'hi', by the way, and she hopes you feel better soon."

Tim looked blank again. "You – why? Jay, are we in – is this – is this your apartment?" Dark blue eyes peered up desperately, hands gripping too tightly on the trash can.

"Well it wasn't like I was gonna take you to the Manor." Scowling, the other boy jerked the fouled can away again, stomping over to the adjoining bathroom to dump and rinse it. "And I'm not such a jerk to leave you to Golden Boy's TLC."

"He means well," Tim protested, but even to his own ears it sounded feeble.

Jason snorted, stalking back into the room and dropping the rinsed-out can back by Tim. "Babybird, are you going to try and tell me you want Dick around when you feel like crap?"

Tim shifted, eyes dropping to watch his hands, fiddling with the blanket. "Dick is –" he began helplessly, but Jason interrupted, rolling his eyes. "Dick is a cuddle monster and he doesn't know when to stop and if you're already feeling like a truck load of crap just dumped on you the last thing you want is a hovering mother octopus."

Before Tim could respond, there was a soft knock on the door that put one in mind of an unobtrusive cough, and Alfred floated in.

"Good morning, Master Jason, Master Timothy."

"Hey, Alfred," Tim relaxed back against the pillows, smiling warmly. Something about Alfred's presence (unlike Dick or Bruce) was inescapably calming, and Tim hardly even noticed his clothes being whisked off and crisp flannel pajamas slipping on, his temperature being taken (and 'tsk'ed' at), and cool cloths being deposited on his forehead.

He only woke up from his Alfred-comfort induced daze when he hears the man say crisply, "Master Jason, your cookies are on the counter in the kitchen. Please remember to use a plate, and do not drink directly out of the carton."

Tim grinned to himself at that, and slipped easily to sleep. Jason's petulant response and Alfred's patient implacability as he moved almost soundlessly around the room providing a comforting background noise Tim only dimly recognized – sounds of home.


End file.
